Lace and Paint (True Colors Book 1) Page 3

  “Talia! Open the door immediately! Do you hear me?”

  I hear her. I’ve been hearing her for years, telling me I am not good enough.

  The knocking quiets down. She’s still standing on the other side of the door, I can feel her, feel her annoying presence. But I don’t open it. She can go to hell. I’m not going to open the door and let her back into my life.

  “Put this on, darling.” John’s voice pulls me back to the chilly patio in London. I open my eyes even though the memory chases me.

  John sees the look in my eyes. “Is everything okay?”

  I take the large grey sweatshirt from him and put it on. “I’m fine,” I utter with a smile, making an effort to shake off the thoughts about my mother.

  “What were you thinking about?”

  “Home.”

  “Danny said things weren’t good.” He sits on the sofa opposite me and leans back. “I hope you don’t mind he told me.”

  “No, and in any case, I’m living in your house, you’re bound to hear everything. I’m glad you know.”

  “Talia, sweetheart, you have to learn to leave things behind. Don’t let everything rattle you.”

  John knows a thing or two about being rattled. He has great insights on life.

  “I’m trying, you know. But it just keeps on haunting me.” I sigh quietly. I’m not going to tell him just how much it haunts me. I’m not going to bother him or Danny. If they knew about my dreams…

  “It haunts us all. That’s the lesson, sweetheart, to live with it. You can’t go mad all the time.”

  “I like going mad.” I laugh. “My mother claims I do it deliberately.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know how much control I have over it.”

  “Over what?” he asks, trying to add some clarity to the conversation.

  “You know,” I smile. “The food, my situation, when I’m unbalanced.”

  “Do you like living like that?”

  “Sometimes,” I admit self-consciously. I like my high. It’s addictive. It allows me to delude myself that I can deal with everything. “I like being happy. Not that I succeed all the time.”

  “What makes you happy?”

  “Being here, painting, writing.”

  “Good. You are here and you’re painting and writing. Why aren’t you happy?”

  He smiles at me mischievously. He always knows how to get to the point.

  “I’m working on it,” I mumble.

  “Very good. Looks like our food is ready.”

  I put out my cigarette and get up to go and set the table and contribute to the preparation of dinner.

  An hour later, I’m in bed earlier than expected. My eyes are closed and I take a deep breath. This is London. Everything is possible.

  “You’re crazy.” The dismissive tone addresses me once again; burning eyes stare at me unnervingly, causing me to shrink beneath my blanket. My heart races at a pace I can’t control.

  “You’re insane.”

  His back is turned to me, while he quickly pulls on his jeans and worn-out white T-shirt without even glancing at me.

  “Why are you going?” I manage to mumble something. I’m panic-stricken. Why am I surprised? What did I think would happen once he found out?

  “How dare you even ask?” His tone is shocked. “Hiding your secrets for two whole months. Well, that certainly explains a few things…”

  I told him. The Big Secret. I told him all about it. The outbursts. The celebrations. The abyss. And just as I thought, now all I see is his back, while he sits on my bed, putting on his shoes as fast as he can.

  “It doesn’t make any difference. I’m still the same girl.”

  “I don’t know who you are. And I don’t intend to stick around to find out.”

  Then he gets up and takes his wallet from my chest of drawers. The door opens, and slams it behind him. Uncontrollable tears come pouring down. I turn on my side, lift my knees to my chest, and curl into myself.

  The time for darkness has arrived.

  My heart is pounding wildly when I jerk awake, trying to regulate my breathing. Several moments pass before I get my bearings and realize where I am. My past. Here. In a room in London. Reminding me of why I ran away. Reminding me of how bad it can be. It’s half past four in the morning. I pull up the blanket and cover myself. I wonder again if the decision to come was a good one. I turn on my side and close my eyes. What are the chances of falling asleep now?

  I don’t know who you are…and I don’t intend to stick around to find out… you’re insane…

  Jesus! Why won’t they stop ringing the doorbell?

  I wash my hands in the kitchen sink. It’s Friday, five o’clock in the afternoon. Danny and John are still at work and I wonder who is so persistent that they won’t stop ringing the bell.

  I painted the entire morning, listening to music at full volume and letting it rock me, and my feelings, from one extreme to the other. Joy, sadness, anger. Later on, I bought ingredients for dinner and came home in order to cook my men a meal of chicken and potatoes, as a sign of gratitude for having me in their lives. The Sugababes were playing in the background as I danced in the kitchen. But now that damn doorbell won’t stop ringing.

  I slowly open the door, surprised to see a tall man in a grey suit standing before me. For a second, I stop breathing as he stares at me with big, green eyes.

  God help me.

  “Hello.” He smiles widely. “You must be Talia.”

  I am Talia. And he knows it. And that’s all I can think of when those mesmerizing eyes stare at me.

  “I’m Ben. Is Danny home?”

  It takes a moment for his words to sink in.

  “No… he’s at work…” I murmur.

  His hair is short and brown. Really short. I’m still hypnotized by his green eyes, which remind me of the fields at home.

  “Really?” He seems surprised, and promptly pulls his phone out of his pants pocket. Before I can say anything, he’s dialing with his long fingers, smiling at me.

  “Danny, I’m at yours…” He doesn’t take his eyes off of me. His gaze is penetrating. I swear he can see right into me, deep inside the mess. “Okay. If she’ll ever let me in…one second.”

  He hands me the phone.

  “Hi,” I answer timidly into the phone, still confused by his presence, his gaze.

  An unfamiliar stranger is standing at our door, smiling his gorgeous smile at me.

  “Hi. We’ve been held up for a few minutes at work. Do you mind letting Ben in and being friendly, like I know you can be, until we get there?”

  Shit. My heart is racing. He wants me to let this guy inside the house.

  “Okay,” I grumble quietly.

  Thanks very much for giving me a heads-up. Now I have to entertain this man, who I don’t even know. I look up at him; his smile makes his eyes twinkle.

  He is really gorgeous.

  He extends his hand, waiting for me to return his phone and maybe to decide to let him in. I end the call and return it to him.

  “Danny said you can come in.” I pull the door back, hesitatingly, and let him take a few steps into the house. “Are you a friend of his?”

  “Amongst other things.” His answer is a bit vague.

  I close the door and walk toward the kitchen, trying to calm my hammering heart. I can feel his gaze burning into my back and I glance down at the clothes I’m wearing—thank goodness I chose the purple dress. God only knows how embarrassing it would have been if I was wearing my grey, worn-out sweatpants.

  He takes his wallet and phone out of his pants pocket and puts them on the island. Then he opens a button of his grey jacket, removes it, and hangs it on the back of the chair. He seems quite relaxed. I get the feeling this isn’t the first time he’s visited. I sneak a glance his way as he slips off his tie and opens the top button of his white shirt, which emphasizes his broad shoulders. They’re really broad. And he really lo
oks like someone who could cause me trouble.

  He doesn’t say a word as he walks behind me toward the fridge. The silence between us is awkward but the smell of his aftershave is incredible. My eyes follow him helplessly. He opens the fridge, takes out the bottle of wine I had bought, takes two wine glasses from the cupboard, and finds the corkscrew in the drawer without any difficulty. Then, he sits on the bar stool and opens the bottle. I can’t clear my thoughts, his presence causes my body to tense up.

  He pours us both some wine, looks at me, and one corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile as he hands me the glass. I take it from him, standing silently by the marble countertop, confused.

  Who is this guy? Why does he feel so at home here?

  He raises his wine glass toward me and doesn’t wait for me to do the same.

  “Welcome to London. So, what are you cooking for me?”

  My jaw drops. I’m what? Cooking for him? Is this guy for real? He sees the stunned look on my face and his smile widens.

  “Come on, You girls are all the same, you love cooking for us. It’s an evolutional thing.”

  What. The. Hell?

  “Are you kidding me?” I’m shocked, although I’m well acquainted with his type—the gorgeous guy who thinks he has the entire world at his feet. He’s a player. And, considering his looks, he must be really good at it. A real pro. I’ve met more than my share of men like him. I have to be careful.

  “This is what you’re listening to?” He tilts his head, keeping his green-eyed gaze on me, as “Overload” plays on the stereo.

  “I do the cooking, I choose the music.” His impudence surprises me. First he wants me to cook for him and now he’s criticizing my taste in music?

  “I can’t believe Danny is late. I’m going to speak with his boss,” I complain angrily.

  “Okay.” He puts his wine glass on the counter, crosses his arms, and smiles at me. Again. Damn, his smile is lovely.

  “What?”

  “I’m waiting.” He raises an eyebrow.

  “Waiting for what?”

  “You wanted to speak with Danny’s boss.”

  “What are you talking about?” I stare at him, at a total loss.

  “You really don’t know who I am?” He looks taken aback.

  “No idea.” I’m embarrassed. Am I missing something?

  “I’m Ben. Ben Storm.”

  My jaw drops again. Did he just say his name is Ben Storm? The company Danny works for is called…Storm Buildings.

  No way. This guy?

  “Are you the owner of Danny’s company?” I don’t mean to sound so surprised. But I do.

  He doesn’t look like the owner of anything. His grey suit may be the only thing about him that resembles anything managerial. With his close-cropped brown hair, he looks more like an infuriating bad boy. “Last time I checked, it was my company.” His laugh is totally adorable. “Yes, I’m the boss. I’m surprised we’ve never met before. Danny told me this isn’t your first visit.”

  Danny’s boss. This rugged man, who looks like he’s just stepped out of a GQ magazine.

  “It’s not my first visit…” I don’t know what to say. Danny’s boss?

  “So, what are you cooking for me?” he asks again, completely ignoring the stunned look on my face. He seems to be enjoying my discomfort.

  “Food.” I stare at him.

  “Can I help?”

  Really?

  “You’d like to help? Because I’ll happily blame you if the food’s not good,” I tease him.

  “Or be hugely impressed, when you find out how delicious it is.” The smile on his face widens.

  “Do you know how to cook?” I study him as he unbuttons his sleeves and rolls them up neatly.

  “I know how to cook.”

  I don’t want to cook with this guy. I don’t even know what to think of him. He’s annoying and way too good-looking. I’m better off keeping my distance.

  “I really don’t need any help. I’m done.” I lift my glass of wine off the counter. “I’m going outside to smoke.”

  “You smoke?” He sounds appalled. “What a terrible habit.”

  “You think?” I mumble. As if I didn’t know that.

  I go to the patio, sink into the loveseat, light up a cigarette, and inhale deeply.

  What’s the deal with this guy?

  “So…” I glance toward the door. Ben comes out holding his glass of wine and sits on the larger sofa against the wall. I’m immediately on alert. I don’t know him and I know nothing about him. So why is my body reacting to him this way?

  “What brings you to London?”

  What brings me to London? That’s what I’m still trying to figure out.

  “I needed a break,” I answer him seriously. I have no intention of telling him anything. I have no idea who he is, and in the meantime, all he does is piss me off while staring at me with his gorgeous green eyes.

  “A break.” He repeats what I’ve said, and takes a sip of wine. “Basically, you ran off to London?”

  Ran off? What’s this guy’s problem?

  “I didn’t ‘run off’ anywhere. Danny was kind enough to invite me to stay with him and John. I simply decided to take them up on their generous offer,” I answer him defiantly.

  “What do you do with yourself, to keep busy? Work?”

  “I paint and write my blog. And I may just find a job.” I try to sound important. I hope he doesn’t find it as pathetic as I do.

  “So you don’t do anything,” he murmurs.

  Seriously!

  “I do as I please, thank you very much. Not that it’s any of your business.” I take another sip of my wine.

  “You’re a funny little girl.”

  I’m what? The nerve of the guy.

  “I’m not funny,” I snap at him. “And I’m twenty-six years old, thank you very much. Again.”

  “I wasn’t referring to your age.” His voice is serious and quiet. Then what was he referring to?

  “You’re infuriating.” I can’t stop myself. “How old are you?”

  “Thirty,” he answers straightaway.

  He’s thirty years old? And he has his own construction company? He manages to be both annoying and impressive. The sharp sensation of failure catches me off guard. A deep stabbing pain someplace around my middle. Here I am, sitting on the patio with this guy, who not only looks good—really good—but also owns his own construction company at the age of thirty.

  “So, how does one manage to own his own company at the tender age of thirty?” I try to sweep away the hurt.

  “I started early.” He smiles smugly.

  “Define early.” I try to ignore the way his smile causes my heart to race.

  “I’ve been working since I was fourteen.”

  Since he was fourteen?

  “Are you serious?” I try not sound shocked, but that’s exactly how I feel. “What kind of work did you do at that age?”

  No wonder he’s so successful! I can’t even remember what I was doing when I was fourteen.

  “Whatever there was.” He shrugs indifferently. “I mowed the neighbors’ lawn, washed cars, sold lemonade, and on weekends I would go with my parents to garage sales, buy things cheap and sell them at a profit. You wouldn’t believe what people sell for pennies.”

  I can picture this boy standing behind a lemonade stand with his lovely smile. I’m sure it worked. It probably still did. God knows it’s working now on me.

  “So how do you get from selling lemonade to a construction company at the age of thirty?”

  “At the end of my street there was a house. A dump, actually. No one wanted it.”

  “No one besides you, I gather?” I murmur.

  “Yes. I was eighteen when I saw its potential so I persuaded my parents to give me a loan and I bought it. It took me a year to renovate it. I went all over to find good deals, leftover ceramics, stuff on exhibit, you name it.” He shrugs, rising his shoulders high. “Any work I could d
o myself I did, and what I couldn’t do, I persuaded someone else to do for me. My neighbor did some work for me on the house and I worked in his garden and washed his car as well. You get the picture.” He sounds pleased with himself, and with good reason.

  “And once you were done?”

  “I sold it—for a lot of money.”

  He sold it?

  “Wasn’t it difficult? Selling it after all the hard work you put into it?”

  “Very. But with the money I earned I could buy the next house and then the next one…in any case, I own the house now.”

  “You do? You bought it back?” I’m shocked.

  “It was my first home.” He smiles triumphantly. “I invested my soul into that house. I couldn’t just give it up. I had to buy it back.”

  He really does have a charming smile. “How did you persuade them to sell it to you? Didn’t it cost you a lot more than what you sold it for?”

  “It didn’t matter to me. I simply gave them an offer they couldn’t refuse.”

  God help me. For a second there, I managed to ignore his humiliating behavior in the kitchen. His company isn’t the only remarkable thing about him. I can’t ignore his air of confidence. It’s like he’s on a mission to conquer the world and he’s doing a pretty good job. I sneak another peek at him. Our eyes meet and I blush uncontrollably.

  Jesus! How old am I—sixteen?

  “So, have you known Danny and John long?” I try to keep the conversation going.

  Come on, Talia, you landed in London a minute and a half ago, and this guy is so out of your league. Look at him! Look at you…

  “John, I’ve known for how long? Five years?” He screws up his face in an attempt to remember. “And Danny since he came here.”

  “It’s amazing that you work together and still manage to stay such good friends. I can imagine it’s a recipe for disaster.”

  “Why?” He sounds surprised.

  “What happens if you disagree on something?”

  He gives a small, amused laugh. “We usually disagree. And that’s why I like them. They’re not scared to voice their opinion. Anyway, I get the final say.”